


Le Bien Qui Fait Mal

by Echinoderma



Category: Fire Emblem: Soen no Kiseki/Akatsuki no Megami | Fire Emblem Path of Radiance/Radiant Dawn
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Light Dom/sub, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-05-01 20:21:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5219498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Echinoderma/pseuds/Echinoderma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Ike, it's all about the build up; for Soren, the release.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Le Bien Qui Fait Mal

**Author's Note:**

> porn and nothing more. vague modern au setting

It's the denouement for a long, lazy afternoon, aimless and uneventful and spent mostly draped over each other on the living room couch, Soren reading some encyclopedic tome and Ike dozing pleasantly in his company. The storm had rolled in slow; thick, grey clouds visible off the horizon in the early morning, meandering across the sky over the course of the day.

Eventually they had coalesced, blotting out the sun, rendering it too dark to read without a light. Ike expected Soren to reach over and switch on the lamp, but instead he shuts his book with a snap of his wrist, and wriggles out from underneath Ike’s legs to stand.

“Come upstairs,” Soren says. He motions with his hand, and there’s nothing for Ike to do but follow.

(Outside, the rain taps on the window panes, quieter than Ike's feet upon the carpet, quieter than the gentle click of the door as he locks it, out of habit.)

On the edge of the bed, Soren sits, one leg thrown over the other and hair falling half over his face, the rest swept back behind his ear. He's relaxed, or at least puts up a good front, the only tell of unrest the slight tremble in his fingers as they rest on his thighs. Ike doesn't dare move before ordered, instantly recognizing Soren’s mood; for all his strength, he is powerless under Soren's eyes, locked in place by his steady, unwavering gaze.

"Soren-"

"Don't speak," he snaps, turning over his palm to beckon him forward. "Come here."

He concentrates on his steps, the slow locomotion of his muscles as he crosses the room in only a few tentative strides.

"On your knees."

A flush spills across cheeks, his chest; already he's burning, burning alive and he finds Soren's fingers are the only reprieve for miles, ice-cold relief when they’re placed against his neck.

Ike swallows. "I-"

Soren shushes him, harshly, digs his nails into the thin skin under his jaw to prove a point. "Ah, ah," he starts, emphasized by the sharp click of his tongue, "I said don't speak, Ike. Didn't you hear me?"

(He's panting now, heavy and harsh, ripped from his throat in rapid, erratic rhythms. But he swallows his words and lowers his head in submission, forehead barely grazing against a clothed thigh, the rough denim of Soren's jeans. Something warm trickles down into the hollow of his collarbone, scents of copper in the air- Soren's nails, narrow and naturally pointed, have drawn blood.)

 He waits to see if Ike will respond, but, aside from the rough edge to his breathing, he doesn’t make a sound.

"That's better," Soren murmurs, fingers carding through Ike's hair, following the contours of his skull and tracing the hard ridges of cheekbones, hands splayed to cup his face. "Good boy, Ike."

 

Pleased, like one might speak to a well-behaved dog, praising a favored pet. Never for a second does the movement of his pale hands cease, exploring every tiny, fevered inch of skin. Were Ike not already on the ground, he thinks, his legs would have given out, Soren's fingertips leaving little spots of chill where they suck away the heat. It reduces him to shivers. To shuddering, breathless gasps; head cradled in Soren's lap while his hands grasp at whatever is nearest: the bed sheets, his shirt, the hem of Soren's pants. His nails pull up loose strands from the carpet, something that will no doubt earn him a scolding later.

"Look at me."

Following Soren's command comes as naturally as breathing, automatic, subconscious obedience. Before he can fully register the words he's looking up, neck craned at an angle to see Soren staring down, eyes half-lidded and the faintest traces of a smile. "You look like you have something to say."

He does, he does, but he's good- Soren said so- and refrains, silent as he waits for permission.

There’s a flash of teeth behind Soren’s lips as his smile widens, drawing Ike's chin further upwards. "You look like you have something you want."

It's another test; a measure of Ike's discipline. Raggedly, he breathes the air around them, heavy with the heat of their bodies and the sharp salt bite of Soren's sweat, of his own.

A long, long moment passes; still, save for the rise and fall of their chests, and at last, Soren seems satisfied. "Speak."

"You." I leaves him with the force of a hurricane, all of his nerves alight at just the thought of him, the pleasure of letting Soren know that he is aching for his touch, desperate for his attention. That he is all Ike has ever, will ever, desire. "I want you, Soren."

Whatever biting command Soren had had in store is reduced to a strangled, wordless sound; he falls backwards onto the bed and drags Ike with him, nearly shredding the collar of Ike's shirt as he pulls him forward, over him, a force to which Ike is more than willing to succumb. He ends up almost missing, crashing against Soren's body in an ungainly heap, holding him down with just his weight, large hands curled in the dark weave of the other's hair. Ike coaxes Soren's head back, back until all he can see is the pale spread of his throat. A favorite of his, easily marked and visible; the bruises he leaves linger for days afterwards, tender spots under Soren’s clothes.

The urge to affix his lips to the leaping pulse is strong, animal instinct, but baser still is the part of him that snaps to attention with every word wrought in Soren’s honeyed voice. Ike waits, patiently, a light, fluttering kiss on the underside of Soren’s jaw as far as he is willing to push without an order.

 

(He said he was good, Soren did. The last thing he wants to do is disappoint)

 

“Ike,” Soren breathes. “Bite.”

He does, eagerly. Soren’s cries are sharp and pained, but give way to short, quick breaths, little moans from the back of his throat. Tense, as he tries to give Ike more access, more room to lay a swath of dark, purpled marks, indents left behind in the wake of his teeth. One of the hands woven in Soren’s hair loosens and grasps at the thin collar of his shirt, tugs it down to expose more of that sensuous flesh. Unfocused and heady, Soren watches as he draws back, Ike running his knuckles along the flushed and swollen skin. His eyes are slitted, barely open, each breath released prematurely through parted lips; panting, as he watches Ike move his hands to the waist of his pants, fingers teasing at the seams, and nothing more. It takes Soren a few tries to speak, propped on his elbows to better look at the larger of the two of them. Ike stands between Soren’s knees, his own braced against the edge of the bed, waiting for anything, anything.

“Shirt off,” he commands, hands clenched into fists and voice cracking the slightest bit at the end.

Eagerly, Ike complies, hands working the small buttons of his shirt; it’s troublesome enough on a good day, but here, pressed in on all sides by heat and anticipation, by Soren’s expectant gaze, it’s seems monumental, this simple task.

“You’re taking too long,” Soren mutters. “Bad, Ike.”

He flinches, buttons slipping from his grasp. The last finally comes undone under his nervous, clumsy fingers, and Ike wastes no time in letting the shirt fall to the floor as it slides from his broad shoulders.

(Were Ike’s hearing not drowned out by the roar of blood in his ears, and his own heaving breath, he would have heard the purr low in Soren’s throat, a fluttered tone that had started while Ike worked the skin at his neck.)

Sitting up, closer, now, he draws his claws down the planes of Ike’s abdomen, taking in the harsh scent of his sweat, his skin. “Mine too.”

(And they are claws, at this point, a slow transformation taking place in the absence of judgemental, unfamiliar eyes. Ike notices, when they’re alone, the way Soren’s teeth are too long, too pointed; he sees the sharpness of his nails, the way the lengths of his limbs carry fine indentations and lattice lines. At night, he runs his hand down Soren’s back and isn’t surprised when it comes back bloody, caught in a ridge of small, serrated spines, running from neck to tailbone.)

Ike nods, hands at the other’s sternum. Soren’s buttons are smaller than his own, more finicky to undo, but it isn’t as frustrating as his own. It lets him indulge, drink in every inch of warm and pliant skin revealed by each button undone.  Soren reaches for his face again, looks pleased and impatient all at once.

“Tell me again,” he orders once Ike finishes, shrugging out of his rumpled shirt. “Tell me what you want.”

“You,” Ike says, hands hovering at Soren’s side, barely touching. “I’ve always wanted you.”

“Tell me more.” Fevered, urgent. Ike can tell by the way Soren digs his fingers into his shoulder that he wants him closer than he is; he drops down again, kneeling between Soren’s splayed legs. “I want to hear it.”

For the thousandth time that night, Ike swallows, gasping wetly with the effort. It’s hard to put into words, the things he wants to do to him, especially when Soren is there, so close within his reach; the sounds he wants to hear, the vital, internal heat he craves, the feel of him-

He finds the jut of Soren’s hips, still frustratingly clothed, and works little circles into the curves of bone. “Taste.”

“Hmm?”

“Taste. I want to.” Ike can’t keep his eyes from wandering low, lower, where the wafer-thin scales on Soren’s belly disappear below the waistline of his pants. “Right now, I- I want to taste.”

“Oh,” Soren sighs, more of a breathless moan than any kind of recognizable speech. He returns to running his fingers through the damp locks of Ike’s hair, claws dragging pleasantly, lightly against the scalp. “Is that so?”

(Is it? Ike thinks of a time before, when he’d held Soren against the wall, hadn’t bothered to even undress him all the way. Insistent, the way he’d devoured him then, all tongue and swollen lips as he kept the other still.)

He pulls Soren closer to the edge of the bed, nearly flush against him. “Can I?”

(Their proximity gives him shivers; his pants are tight, tight, tight- and Soren is so, so close.)

“‘May I’, Ike,” Soren mutters, but he lifts his hips from the bed, arms around Ike’s neck to keep him aloft. “Off.”

(He likes this part the most, where Soren’s facade begins to crack and splinter. Every movement is punctuated with a jumpy twitch of the fingers, a quick jerk of the wrist, every part of him trembling with the exertion of holding back, of keeping control. Never mentioned, not his place to say, but Ike enjoys the spectacle, the slow erosion of what everyone thinks is Soren’s indomitable self-control.

Because, if he’s being honest, it’s easy, easy to tear him down and leave him a shaking and boneless mess in his arms, spent and shivering against his chest. A few touches- to the neck, the inner wrist, the slight spread of his ribs- and Soren comes crashing down, wanton in a way that has even Ike surprised,. A view of which he could never, ever tire. That liminal state, where Soren is slipping, barely holding on- he could watch for a lifetime, for two, and feel just as hungry.

Trust, in a word. That Ike will give to this hidden, dominant side of his own will, even when overpowering him would be as easy as one, two, three-)

 

The buckle is tough going, both of them unwilling to part from the other, one of Ike’s hands wormed between them and fumbling, blindly, with the mechanism. He’s not sure if it’s come loose, or if he’s broken it somehow, but it falls away and he makes short work of the zipper, unable to resist slipping his hand into the newly made space, beneath the waistband of Soren’s boxers-

“Ah-!” nearly screamed, Soren arching impossibly closer, arms vicelike around Ike’s neck. A growl against Ike’s ear, gives way to a plaintive whine; Ike only lets his fingers brush against the hard flesh, a quick swipe against the tip that has Soren writhing, grinding into his hand.

Pulling back, he finally tears away the last of Soren’s clothing, dropping them into the heap of their other discarded wear.

“I didn’t say you could touch, yet,” Soren hisses, roughly, against Ike's ear. A sharp pain, a warmth felt suddenly along his shoulder- Ike winces as he turns the slightest bit to look. Soren’s claws are buried into the muscle of his arm, a thin stream of blood running down from the puncture wounds. “Apologize.”

It leaves him in a jumbled mess of syllables and shallow breaths. “I’m sorry, sorry.”

But Soren is relentless- he pulls, just a little, talons long and hooked, and Ike has to bite his lip to keep from screaming, making a noise, undoubtedly something Soren would view as another reason for punishment. “Say what you did wrong. So you know.”

“I didn’t ask,” Ike says through gritted teeth, “ for permission, before I touched. I’m sorry.”

“And here I thought you were good.” Soren withdraws his hand, scarlet running down his palm from the mess at his fingertips. The blood on Ike’s back goes cool in the open air, painful, but pleasant, against his heated skin. “Open your mouth, Ike.”

In contrast, the blood on Soren’s claws is searing against his lips, against his tongue. Careful around the point, he licks the length of them clean, grunting when Soren shoves them obscenely deeper, down to the last knuckle, almost to the back of his throat.

(He’s disobeying again, touching before asking, hands spread to hold Soren’s waist, lost in the transition between textures, scale and skin. They’re most prominent there, at the sides of his ribs, and lower, the edges a glossy, iridescent black, lightly serrated at the tips. It's rare that they become so developed, that Soren becomes so far removed from his own mind that he forgets to keep hold on a more human appearance.)

Before he can stop, he whines at the loss of Soren’s fingers, tongue almost hanging from his lips. Ike doesn't want for long, Soren wrapping a hand behind his neck and pulling him forward to meet his own, a harsh and demanding kiss. Fangs pierce Ike’s lip, and the tang of metal returns, some of it running a ways down Ike’s chin before Soren licks it up, savoring the taste.

(He looks wild, positively feral; teeth bared and the long arch of his claws poised to strike again, a dusting of obsidian scales grown at the edge of his cheeks. Soren’s eyes catch the weak lamplight and practically glow in his sockets, the brightest spot in the entire room.)

Ike wants to kiss him again, softer, soothingly; but Soren has other ideas, and shoves Ike further downward, insistent, impatient.

“Mouth,” he groans. He nearly collapses onto his back, legs spreading wider, inviting. “Now.”

(Soren isn’t looking at him, head tilted to the side and eyes screwed shut. His hand is tense, trembling; he pulls jerkily at the short hairs of Ike’s scalp.)

 

Gingerly, he shifts Soren’s legs so they drape over his shoulder, pale ankles immediately crossing behind him. He presses a palm to the small of Soren’s back to steady them both and leans forward- anticipation has him rattled, shaking with the promise of it all; tongue at the tip and licking away a smear of fluid that had gathered along the head, earning him a rough yank from the hand twisted into his hair.

“Don’t tease,” Soren’s chest is heaving, his voice low and distant. “Bad.”

(He doesn’t want to be bad. He wants to be good.)

A second, and he takes Soren fully into his mouth, pushing against the instinctive thrust that inevitably comes before Soren even registers the contact, involuntary reaction. The skin is soft, velvety against his lips, the flat of his tongue; he strains to hear the moans that are torn from Soren’s ragged throat, the difference in pitch and origin. Ike could play Soren like an instrument, a primal symphony, knows just how to get him howling with need, whimpering in desperation, and every noise in between.

But here, in this moment, he is at Soren’s mercy, the pain is there to remind him; gouges on his shoulder, the cut on his lip, the dull ache at the back of his head where Soren pulled almost hard enough to uproot when he’d swallowed around him.

(In the back of his mind, Ike always knows how easy it would be to overtake him; knows that if he dropped his fingers a bit lower, to somewhere more intimate, he could have Soren begging, the tables turned in an instant. But he likes Soren’s praise, and Soren’s punishments, and is happy to draw out their scene for as long as he likes, as long as he needs.)

He draws back to suck at just the head, acutely attuned to the wave of hitched breaths coming from above him, the throaty gasp of his name from Soren’s mouth.  “Ike-”

The thighs around his shoulder are tense, the muscles jumping under the skin as Ike slides back down, humming a little to provide more stimulus. Soren’s close, he can tell, clawed toes curled into his shoulder blades, the long tendons of his legs taut like tightropes. Sometimes, he wishes he could keep him like this, poised before the fall, both of them drowning in the visceral nature of each other; the rest of the world melted away and all of their anxieties with it.  

_“Ike, Ike- good boy, Ike-”_

(The praise sets off sparks, lightning through his nerves; the worst of it centered on his belly, travelling low, low, low-)

He can’t speak, so he merely grunts in acknowledgement, digging his thumb into the hollows of Soren’s hips, fingers into his side, Some guttural, animal word spills from Soren’s lips, and his hands fly to cover his mouth; a foreign curse, one that Ike has heard before.

(Filthy, it was. He had looked it up on a whim after Soren refused to translate, and nearly choked.)

“Close,” Soren hisses, oddly accented. “Keep going, Ike.”

Never one to disobey an order, he hollows his cheeks, sucking with an almost bruising force. Ike lets Soren thrust shallowly into his mouth, a sign of his peak, mars Soren’s skin with a few scratches of his own.

(Soren’s watching him now, whispering to himself in that arcane tongue of his. It was in a situation like this, Ike’s face tucked between Soren’s legs, that he’d heard him speak it for the first time, a garble of consonants that, despite the language barrier, he still managed to understand.)

 

_“Ah-!”_

 

 _There,_ with every muscle in his body drawn tight, tense, curled in on himself and grasping at Ike's shoulders. He moves his mouth to no avail, nothing but a high, keening scream, fragmented, ragged exhales. No order, but Ike takes initiative, fastened still to Soren's length as he swallows his release.

(If Soren could speak, it's what he would have asked of him, he knows)

He withdraws, unable to do much more than nuzzle against Soren's stomach when he falls back, loose-limbed and languid in utter contrast to his usual demeanor. Ike waits, ever patient, placing slow, open kisses right under the other's naval.

"Ike," Soren croaks, and he waits with bated breath for Soren to continue.

But he doesn't; only tugs insistently at at Ike's hair, until he scoots higher, covering Soren's chest with his own. He could speak without reprimand now, Soren lost in the wanton bliss of his afterglow. But he's good- Soren said- so he doesn't, busying himself in cataloguing the bruises newly formed along Soren's hips, matching his fingers to the shapes. They lay together for a long, timeless moment, lulled by the rhythmic tap of heavy rain on glass. Ike rests his forehead lightly on Soren's sternum, taking in his warm, comforting scent, the heady, underlying smell of sex.

"Is that all you wanted?"

Ike cocks his head in question, not yet given the word to speak.

"To taste. Is that all you wanted?" Soren's head is tilted back, question voiced to the ceiling. "Or is there something else?"

(Ike's mouth goes parched, dry as a desert. A test; Soren's question has a lilt to it, a measure of want tucked away between the words. He spends a long moment watching the other's face from a crooked angle, observing his expression to decipher what he wants him to say. )

A slim hand cradles his jaw. "You may speak, Ike."

"I want," he begins, "whatever you want, Soren."

"You'd do whatever I asked?"

Ike leans forward, elbows at Soren's ribs, forehead pressed to the brand at the other's brow. "Anything, Soren. You know that."

The breath catches in the Soren’s throat, strangled as he holds Ike close, the only thing keeping him tethered to solid ground. "Good."

(It is a roundabout way of reassurance, but Ike doesn't think much of it, anymore.)

 

The next time he speaks, it's strained and sentimental, whisper-quiet. "Tell me you love me, Ike."

It's not an order he needs. "I love you, Soren."

"Do you mean it?"

He presses a warm, open kiss to the mark on Soren's neck. His eyes flutter shut, "I do."

"Tell me you want more," Soren begs, tightening his legs around Ike's waist, poised to rake his claws down the broad spread of his back. “I want you to want me, Ike. Tell me I’m all you need.”

 (There’s sweat running down his neck; the room is sweltering, all of Ike’s skin set to smoulder, a supernova in every cell. He caresses Soren’s belly, marveling at the warmth of him, the fire at his core.)

“Soren-”

He cuts him off with a quick, chastising noise, hands coming round to rest flat on Ike’s chest. In actuality, Ike is no more in control than Soren, no less attuned to the dark, primal want of another body around his own. He jumps, even though he’s expecting it, hips jerking forward when a finger is hooked into the waist of his jeans.

“Take these off,” Soren  breathes, wide-eyed but almost unseeing, licking his lips. “Now.”

(No amount of repetition can slake Soren’s thirst for affirmation; but Ike has always known actions speak louder than words. He snakes a hand towards his belt- tight, restrictive- and struggles for the second time that night with a small, finicky buckle.)

 

It’s awkward; one arm holding Soren close, one working furiously to send him into a state of undress. Humid as it is, is the air shared between them, the air is still a blessed relief on his damp, sticky skin. For a second, he’s sightless, dark edges creeping inward in his vision when he grinds against Soren’s inner thigh, some baser part of him taking over and pinning frail wrists to the bed.

“All the way, Ike.” Soren speaks in a halting, warbling voice, garbled as he talks around the two ivory fangs that jut from his lips. It’s nothing, one of Ike’s hands more than enough to envelope both of Soren’s, and he shivers as the air hits his calves, free hand shoving down until  the pants are kicked away, out of mind, and his underwear with it. He takes a second to revel in the lack of restrictive fabric around his aching length, a throbbing, pleasured pain; the whole of it rests, thick and heavy, on the smooth, dark scales of Soren’s lower stomach, a smear of wetness left where it touches his skin.

(His hand will leave marks on Soren’s wrists, as well; his lover thin-skinned and writhes against his grasp as they both imagine what is to come.)

First, in the smoky tones of Goldoan, then, after Soren clears his throat and manages to find the words in common language. “Nightstand.”

They’ve already gone swollen, angry where Ike had gripped them with crushing force. He almost knocks over the lamp, his limbs suddenly great, ungainly things, tearing open the drawer with enough strength to move the whole thing forward a few crooked inches.

Thankfully, there’s not much inside, and he finds the lubricant with little trouble, wasting no time in warming a thorough coating between his fingers.

(He likes this part the most, arched over Soren’s body, one of his knees thrown over Ike’s shoulder and the other pulled to his slim chest, every bit of lithe muscle visible to Ike’s wandering eyes. Blood trickles from Soren’s mouth, his tongue, his lips cut by the razor edge of his fangs. Ike can’t help but lean forward, distracted, to lick away the stark, crimson stain, hot and metallic still, but with something else, a spark of something biting, rich, so different from his own.)

“Are you alright?” Ike murmurs against Soren’s mouth, slick fingers wandering lower, down to the yielding ring of muscle between Soren’s legs. “You’re tense.”

“-Fine,” is all Soren manages. “Fine.”

It’s too much to keep the air flowing through his lungs; Ike lets out a breath he hadn’t noticed he was holding, pushes gently, slowly, coaxing Soren open. He already feels the slow unravel of his control, a single thread being pulled until the entire tapestry comes undone.

“Here-” he starts, laying a palm on Soren’s belly, pressure applied in slow, soothing circles. “Good?”

A deep purr, in response, louder than usual; lower-pitched and resonating through Ike’s calloused hand. Soren’s eyes are closed, his breathing going a bit more even, occasionally interrupted by the slightest hitch. He slides in a little more, past the first joint of his index finger, and waits for Soren to adjust, every twitch of muscle a sign, a little piece of code for Ike to decipher.

(Further inward, down to the base, and he crooks his finger in a brief, impulsive motion- Soren cries out, both hands flying to his mouth to muffle the sharp yelp. It’s a good sound, Ike can tell; the little sliver of Soren’s eye is nothing but white-yellow sclera, lashes fluttering and the pulse at his neck throbbing, beating faster than he’s ever seen.)

 

An eternity of this wouldn’t be so bad, he thinks, the sole witness to Soren reduced to the barest elements. Thin legs spread imperceptibly wider when Ike draws his finger back, building a slow and steady rhythm of push in, pull out, push in-

“Ike.” The stress is all wrong, a harsh consonant sound, and he looks to see Soren staring up at him, struggling to keep his eyes open. Familiar, that tone of voice; half-plea, half-demand, raw in a way that lets ike know that soon Soren won’t be saying anything, anything else.

(Isn’t it typical, no surprise at all that when stripped down to his most vulnerable, lost in that dark, animal place at the back of his mind, the only thing left for Soren to remember would be Ike’s name.)

Another finger, rougher this time, pushed halfway before he feels the clench of Soren around him. He thrusts shallowly, as slow as he can manage with the hot silk of Soren’s insides surrounding him; it isn’t about the climax, it’s about this, the moments leading up to it where the tension is so thick it could be sliced with a knife, when Soren is arched off the bed with hands kneaded into the sheets and a soundless litany pouring from his lips like water, like rain. Ike matches it with one of his own, the only thing on his mind. (Soren, Soren, Soren-)

The third one is easiest, joining the others past the fluid-slicked ring, Soren forging his own rhythm, hips rolling as he rides Ike’s fingers with abandon, each strike of his nerves punctuated with a violent, sudden jerk. He lets Soren have it, groping for the lubricant, squeezing it messily onto his own heated flesh.

“May I?” Gravely and hoarse, but laced with submission- just the way Soren likes. He works the liquid over, around the head, thrusting into his hand- any kind of touch is good at this point but he’s ready for more, for something better,  has been ready for quite some time-

(He hasn’t forgotten, even if Soren is in no state to command. He’s good, after all. Soren said.)

Wordlessly, Soren jerks his head in something approaching a nod, but he doesn’t need to speak, really; everything Ike needs to know is laid bare in the loose drape of his limbs, the tendon that jumps- once, twice- along his jaw. Yes, of course, quickly, Ike, quickly-

He’s quick to soothe away the whine in Soren’s throat when he withdraws his fingers, wiping them on the bed before he hikes Soren’s leg higher, higher, a better angle, better access, hands keeping him spread and open- Ike has to bite his lip, hard, to keep from crying out, Soren a silken and exquisite heat around him. Even stretched, relaxed as Soren is, it’s a tight fit, each agonizing inch more pleasurable than the last.

“Fuck,” he breathes, settling against Soren’s body, fully enveloped, wishing to delve even deeper still, pulling Soren onto him to be sure not a single gap remained between them.

Yielding, flexible; Ike pushes Soren’s knees to his chest so he can reach his mouth, careful lest he shred himself on pointed teeth. Soren’s tongue darts past his lips and he doesn’t resist, the taste of each other mingling, merged along their brief union. He gives a short, shallow thrust, just to see Soren gasp, open-mouthed, panting at the sensation, shaking arms grabbing him tightly around the neck.

Soren doesn’t let him move away, growling when Ike tries to straighten and locking his hold with another painful, clawed grasp.

“Ah- ah, okay, Soren, I won’t-”

 _Won’t leave_ , he wants to say, but the words die in his throat, his body caught up in it’s own machinations, separate from the mind. He speeds up, only half out before he’s driving back into that vital fire, pulling Soren’s hips against him in opposite time, the carnal sound of skin slapping against skin magnified, deafening to them both.

(He likes this part the most, where he sets the pace, lets the pressure build, a rhythm that lets him savor the slide of flesh into yielding flesh- the way Soren receives him with short, instinctive spasms, a wealth of rapid, hitching breaths, little whimpers, and words muttered under his breath.)

 

There’s just enough space for him to wrap a hand around Soren’s renewed hardness; as hard as it is to coordinate, he manages infrequent, erratic strokes, more focused on the movement of his hips.

(Remember? It’s easy for him to have Soren trembling, pliant and lost to everything except Ike, above him, inside him; his focus distilled into a single point. Each thrust becomes a bit harsher, a bit harder against him, Soren accustomed to Ike’s girth and urging him on with relentless drag of nails down his back and loud, vocal whines; a constant backdrop to the baseline of skin-hitting-skin again, again, again-)

Ike wants to say Soren’s name- call to him- but all his speech comes out garbled; a mess of thick, heavy grunts, punctuating each slow roll of his hips and it’s already too much, has been too much since before this all had even started, when he’d kneeled at Soren’s behest in a show of perfect obedience.

Too good, this messy, carnal union. Ike couldn’t look away if he tried, the image of Soren flushed down to his chest all he could ever want; swollen lips and tousled hair, precision bruises dotted along his neck and sweat beaded on his skin, his heartbeat racing, lightning-quick, faster even than Ike’s own.

Pressure distilled into a single point, along the length of his shaft where he feels Soren wrapped around him and he knows he’s close, on a delicate, narrow precipice and he could count it down, any second now, the next thrust could be it, could be the one that pushes him clear off the edge-

Climax tears away any kind of coherency, reducing him to some senseless beast, vision gone black and blinding and useless. Ike shuts his useless eyes and rides the long, shivering contractions, reflexive thrusts accompanying each rush of seed that spills into Soren’s body. He’s struck motionless for a few, short seconds before he lets himself slide out, a small gasp leaving his throat, a few errant drops of white following in his wake. Blindly, he keeps the hand around Soren moving, steadier now, rhythmic, and tries to clear his head enough to watch Soren thrust against his palm; wildly, desperately, instinctual.

Every time, he’s struck by the details that culminate, every twitch of Soren’s muscles leading to the finish, to that bursting, agonizing pleasure; coming down from his own high just in time to see Soren come, back held off the bed and every muscle locked in place, tendons vibrating under the skin as his release runs down Ike’s fingers, pooling messily in the thin grooves between his scales.

_“Ike-”_

 

His breathing returns heavy, suddenly, a desperate gasp and short, hyperventilating breaths, all of their built tension finally drained, leaving them exhausted, sated. Ike leans forward on his shaking arms, lowering himself to the bed, careful not to let his weight crush the smaller body beneath him.

“Good?” he asks, clean hand pulling at a loose tangle in the other’s hair. Their clock has come unplugged, from when he had moved the nightstand in his earnestness, but he can tell by the blackness outside that they’ve been occupied for some time. “It’s gotten pretty late.”

Soren remains still, as if the idea of movement no longer registered in his mind. Boneless, with the back of one hand loosely resting against his forehead, he breathes an answer to Ike’s query. “Good.”

“Good.”

One eye cracked open, he makes out Ike’s shadowed form moving about the room. “I made you bleed.”

“Hmm?” Ike shuffles, picking up his long-discarded shirt and wiping away at the mess of sweat and other fluids between them.

“Your back,” Soren rasps. “It’s bleeding.”

“...It’s nothing.” Truth be told, he likes the sharp twinge at his nerves every time he moves his shoulder- it’ll be a nice reminder of their night together in the days following. “I’ll take care of it in the morning.”  

Deeming both of them clean enough, he tosses the shirt across the room and takes Soren by the shoulders, laying him across the bed. He crawls in next to him, drapes his leg across Soren’s own as a comforting weight. Reassurance.

(Outside, the rain continues, little taps on the glass, a soothing white noise.)

Ike shuts off the light with a soft click and throws the room into cool, dark tones; he draws the covers over them both and lets Soren settle against his chest, his arm wrapped around his waist, hand light against his back. Utterly relaxed, as comfortable as can be.

Small and muttered quietly from under the blanket, he hears Soren speak. “-Night, Ike.”

It's too much, to get his lips to move and voice to work, so he just presses his lips to Soren's hair, closes his eyes and lets the ambient noise of the world fade away into nothing.

 

**Author's Note:**

> formatting this... was tough for some reason.


End file.
